Red tape rules
JOURNEYS: THE SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY In Turkmenistan, Krzysztof Derwinski discovers the cult of the great leader and the joys of officialdom

March 11, 2006

I USUALLY hate taxis, but as I sit in a crumbling green Paycan speeding towards the Iran-Turkmenistan border, I realise I am enjoying the ride. The driver's taste in music is excellent, his driving is dangerous and the mountains are gorgeous: sharp cliffs, narrow canyons, all bespeckled with a fresh burst of spring greenery. Aside from the two of us, the car and the dirt road, there is no further indication of human presence on this isolated frontier.

Inside the customs booth, the relevant official is sprawled over his desk, snoring. The young conscript escorting me nervously fingers his AK47 before deciding to gently shake the official, who slowly sits up, rubs his eyes and breaks into a gleaming smile, his front teeth plated with gold.

He informs me of the $10 entrance tax to Turkmenistan, payable at the bank; that is, a back room containing two men, a desk and a safe. Stamping my passport, he directs me to quarantine, where another official is more concerned with her pet baby turtle than my baggage. With the formalities completed, I am in no man's land and the only way out is another taxi; in this case, the only taxi that is allowed to traverse no man's land. Although the driver seems satisfied that he is able to rip me off, the sight of Ashgabat, the city of love, is more than enough to erase my bitterness.

I've come with expectations gleaned from my other post-Soviet travels: crumbling high-rises, rusted fleets of Zhigulis, potholes and other signs of urban decay. Instead, in Ashgabat I see wide roads, well-tended parks, clean new buildings and foreign cars.

"It's because we have a wonderful president," says the driver, obviously proud.

Most Western observers and human rights groups would beg to differ. Saparmurat Niyazov, better known by his self-assumed title of Turkmenbashi (leader of the Turkmen) the Great, has ruthlessly held on to power in Turkmenistan since the republic reluctantly declared independence in 1991. The personality cult that surrounds Niyazov, and the police-state structure that upholds it, rivals that of the Kim dynasty in North Korea.

While Turkmenistan is happy to receive foreign money in exchange for its gigantic oil and gas reserves, independent foreign visitors are not particularly welcome. To obtain a tourist visa you must be accompanied by a government-approved guide at all times.

The only reason I am able to travel freely is my five-day transit visa, which required a two-week wait, a letter of recommendation from my embassy and valid visas for two adjacent countries. However, it happens to be Victory Day, and the atmosphere is relaxed, the dry desert climate covering the city in a warm afternoon glow. The spacious squares are filled with colourfully clad inhabitants strolling at a leisurely pace. Here and there, I hear music and see dancing.

Lulled into a false sense of security, I follow a side path to a ministry building to examine a statue of Niyazov. Two seconds later I hear a whistle, and a well-built man wearing a suit and shades materialises from nowhere.

"What are you doing?" he asks. It is a restricted zone. He checks my documents and tells me to move along. The following morning I make the mistake of taking a shortcut through a car park. Another whistle, another man in a suit.

By day, Ashgabat seems a lot more sinister. Posters of Niyazov gaze down at citizens from every second building. His slogan, "Halk, Watan, Turkmenbashi (The People, the Nation, the Leader)", is displayed with similar frequency. The large squares are empty, the only visible people being the armies of police who patrol them and armies of gardeners who tend them.

In the centre of it all stands the Arch of Neutrality, a spaceship-like structure with a 10m golden statue of Niyazov at the top. I want to ride up it on the escalator but have a problem; I need some money. Although there are banks, the exchange rate is pegged by the Government at 7000 manat to $US1. The black market rate is 25,000 manat.

I decide to ask around outside Ashgabat's only department store. "What are you doing?" hisses the woman I approach. "That guy to your left is an undercover cop. Get out of here now."

Within two minutes of strolling around the corridors of the department store I am approached by a friendly old woman with a big plastic bag. It's full of money.

Since the largest denomination of manat is 10,000 (less than 50c), I walk away with a brick of cash, wondering where to put it.

My tour of Niyazov's bizarre obsession with town planning concludes in the pointless emptiness of Berzengi. A line of empty hotels flanks one side of a giant park. The construction of a second line of what will be empty hotels has begun on the other side. Inside the park is the world's largest fountain and the Museum of Turkmen Values, another sci-fi-inspired creation, with another golden statue of the leader, this time in front of the building.

There is also a park within a park, dedicated to Niyazov's best-selling book, Ruhnama (Book of the Soul), which outlines his views on Turkmen history, religion and invariably his place within both. The book is studied at all levels of schooling, and citizens are required to sit a Ruhnama exam if they wish to enter a university. A 20m statue of the book stands in the middle of the park. A poster of Niyazov admires the statue.

While the totalitarian megalomania is one prominent aspect of Ashgabat, there is a lot more to see. Many pleasant leafy streets lined with old wooden buildings have thus far escaped the touch of Niyazov's bulldozers.

Those wishing to see a more traditional side of Turkmenistan and interact with the people will find interesting bazaars dotted throughout the city. Most prominent is the Tolkuchka Bazaar, a wash of colour that possibly outdoes anything in Asia. There, you can see desert dwellers coming into the city to sell their wares: old men with flowing white beards, women in bright flowery dresses. While the Turkmen people are often understandably shy when it comes to dealing with foreigners, they do harbour a lot of curiosity and are fun once the social barriers have been breached.

But, needing to leave the country, I move on to the town of Mary, where my main objective is to visit the ruins of Merv. Once one of the finest centres of the Islamic world, the city came to a rapid end in 1221 with the arrival of the Mongol armies. In one of the biggest massacres in history, most of the city's 1.3 million inhabitants were slaughtered in 14 days. Today, there is little to see but the city walls, which allow visitors to visualise the horrible immensity of what occurred 800 years ago.

My final day in the country involves another compulsory taxi ride to the border. We make it across a shaky bridge over the swirling muddy waters of the Amu-Daria, battle through numerous checkpoints staffed by surly, illiterate officers and friendly young conscripts, and narrowly avoid getting fined by the traffic police for a malfunctioning handbrake (in what is one of the world's flattest countries).

As the driver reprimands me for not being married by the age of 23, I once again find myself enjoying a taxi ride.

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